


The Cold Earth Slept Below

by allislaughter



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Cold Weather, Eldritch, M/M, POV Third Person, Poetry, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28943730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allislaughter/pseuds/allislaughter
Summary: It's a cold, lonely night out in the Commonwealth. But Deacon would never admit to being lonely.
Relationships: Deacon/Mysterious Stranger
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	The Cold Earth Slept Below

In the dead of winter, where the nights far outlast the light of day, where the chill of ice makes its home in your bones, and the stars overhead somehow seem brighter, being out on your own, bundled up but alone in the silence and dark... It's enough to make any wastelander reverent for whatever old gods still walk the world, undeterred and perhaps strengthened by the radiation that leveled the world years ago, and in their prime in the haunting, frigid night. Even those who would not admit to believing in gods and monsters could feel the need for respect to make it through the night alive.

It's enough to get a lonely man to say a prayer. Deacon would never admit to being lonely.

Really, he wouldn't admit to old gods either. Or admit to too much of anything. He's a notorious liar, after all. The amount of falsehoods under his belt at any given time, you'd think he thinks they're currency.

Wouldn't that be something, he thinks as he blows warm air into his hands. Being able to buy a warm meal or some ammo with a lie or two. Too bad the world shifted to caps instead. He would have a fortune otherwise.

But that’s a digression he doesn’t need to follow. Lonely or not, he  _ is _ alone, no old gods around or so he hopes. No other, more earthly beings around as well, be them human, synth, ghoul, or otherwise. Just him, nature, and a long trek through the night, looking for somewhere warm and safe to rest.

The breeze picks up, shadows move, and Deacon watches, alert and searching for any danger there might be... But, no, all is clear. Calm, silent, unholy and cold.

...The quiet is getting to him. 

“The cold earth slept below,” he recites to himself, racking his brain for Mr. Shelley’s wintery words. “Above the cold sky shone; and all around, with a chilling sound, from caves of ice and fields of snow the breath of night like death did flow beneath the sinking moon...”

Hmm. Perhaps not the best poem for the evening.

“The wintry hedge was black,” he pushed through regardless. “The green grass was not seen; the birds did rest on bare thorn’s breast, whose roots, beside the pathway track, had bound their folds o’er many a crack which the frost had made between...”

There’s another movement of shadows, and Deacon’s more aptly aware of someone there— oh, that’s a rhyme. Maybe he should write a poem— and he weighs his options pausing to search for it or breaking into a run... But no, it’s too cold to run and safely get away. He’s better off facing whoever it is and saying a prayer that they’re not out to kill him.

He sees the figure of a man in shadow, with the silhouette of a hat and the faint reflection of stars in his eyes underneath. Deacon watches, and the figure stares back. A silent staring game, with Deacon unblinking behind his sunglasses in wait for the figure to move or speak.

Perhaps a minute, perhaps a few seconds, pass before the silence eats at Deacon’s patience.

“Thine eyes glow’d in the glare of the moon’s jealous light,” he says, changing the script a bit to suit his needs. “As the stars will then seem on route to a dream gleams brightly—so they reflect there, in the unknown sight of eyes that I see stare, that watch in the dead of night.”

The figure chuckles and draws nearer, seemingly gliding like old world myths of vampires... Or something even more frightening...  _ Deacon, _ the Mysterious Stranger greets like one greets an old friend.

“Is it time for another spontaneous rendezvous?” Deacon asks, tensing a bit as the Stranger lifts a hand to his cheek. “Ooh, cold hands— You’ve been out making snowballs, I see.”

_ You were thinking how you don’t believe in old gods, _ the Stranger says.

“I was thinking I wouldn’t admit they’re real,” Deacon corrects. “There’s a functional difference. Aren’t you the one who doesn’t want me telling people like Sole or Nick about you?”

_...Do you need to warm up? _ the Stranger asks.

Deacon grins. “What gave you that idea? If you ignore the shivering, the wind, the snow, and the temperature, I’m warm as can be.”

_ Come here. _ The Stranger coaxes Deacon to him and holds him.  _ You’re the one praying for me not to hurt you. You know I would never. _

“Do I, though?” Deacon buries his face in all the same. He’d never admit to old gods existing, but that doesn’t mean they don’t.

He’d never admit to being lonely, but...

_ The moon made thy lips pale, beloved, _ the Stranger finishes the poem for him.  _ The wind made thy bosom chill; the night did shed on thy dear head its frozen dew, and thou didst lie where the bitter breath of the naked sky might visit thee at will. _

They end up sinking to the ground, nestled against a tree, with the Stranger holding Deacon and Deacon soaking in the warmth and trying not to fall asleep.

He blinks, and it’s suddenly morning with sunlight breaking the sky, and Deacon is alone again. No sign of anyone else ever being there. Just one lonely man lying against a tree.

He gets up, takes a deep breath, and continues on.

...The stillness of morning is enough to make any wastelander reverent for whatever old gods still walk the world.

Or perhaps he’s biased and it’s just him who’s aware.


End file.
